We All Fall Down
by IsmayDeVain
Summary: Four times Peter wasn't all that worried and one time he was scared to death. Or, four times Neal had someone to catch him and one time he didn't.
1. The Christmas Lights

**A/N: So I found this on my computer. The last installment isn't finished yet, but I figured if I started posting the first four installments and got some good feedback it would encourage me to finish it. So here it is, my first 4-and-1 fanfic.**

**Standard disclaimers apply.**

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**1-Friendship**

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

Peter glanced at Neal from beside the house. Neal stood in the center of the yard staring up at the roof with an ominous expression. The normally impeccably dressed con man was wearing a tattered pair of jeans (on loan from Peter), a crisp dark blue shirt Neal swore was old and could be parted with, and a pair of tennis shoes (also on loan from Peter). And as much as Peter hated to admit it, even in his "down clothes" Neal still could rival a male super model.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a little hard work," Peter said with a smirk as he pulled the leather working gloves over his hands.

"It's not the work I have a problem with," Neal said cryptically.

Peter regarded him with a suspicious look as he crossed the yard to the shed and grabbed the ladder. He placed it on the beside the second ladder that was propped against the gutter. Slinging a roll of Christmas lights over his arm, he grabbed the pair of gloves on the air conditioning unit and tossed them to Neal.

"Well, whatever your issue is, you promised me you would help me with this. We can get it done a lot faster if you quit griping and lend me a hand."

Neal deftly caught the gloves one handed without looking away from the ominous roof. Peter shook his head and grabbed the rails of the ladder, lifting himself effortlessly up the first three steps. He glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

"Neal," he called to the immobile man, "get your ass moving."

Neal startled and looked meekly at him. Reluctantly, he headed to the ladder and Peter shook his head, continuing his ascent. _Why did I just sound like my father?_ Peter wondered absently, remembering every winter just after the first frost when the two of them would be out in the yard. _Fond memories_, Peter mused.

He reached the gutter and crawled easily on to the roof. Beside him, Neal climbed the ladder slowly and cautiously. Peter had unrolled half of the lights by the time Neal had reached the top of his ladder. But once there, Neal gripped the gutter tightly with both hands and refused to let go.

"Neal," Peter called.

"Hmm." Neal muttered.

"You have to let go to get up here."

"I know."

"So why don't you?"

Neal slid his eyes up to Peter, his entire body rigid and tense. Peter smirked as he noticed Neal's hitched breathing, as if he were afraid even the expansion of his lungs would topple him over. Finally, Neal had made contact with Peter, more or less as he hadn't lifted his head even a centimeter.

"What do you think?"

"Gotta height problem?" Peter asked, smirking.

Neal glared, "You're enjoying this way too much."

Peter chuckled, "It isn't every day I see you actually seem human. Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's childish."

Peter's smirk instantly vanished. There was something in the way the two words were delivered with absolute certainty and the empty, monotonous tone that unsettled Peter's stomach.

"The hell it is," Peter said, causing Neal to startle slightly.

"What?" Neal asked, blinking with confusion. The gruff tone Peter had used had lightened his fear enough that he'd lifted his head to watch his partner.

"You heard me," Peter said, "Fear is never childish, Neal. It's real-real enough to paralyze, to drive a person. It's unpredictable, uncontrollable and personal, but it sure ain't childish. Who the hell told you it was?"

"My step father," Neal muttered, then jerked his head up as he realized he'd said more than he'd meant to. He cleared his throat and glanced at Peter, "I appreciate what you're doing, Peter, but could we continue this conversation on the ground?"

"Yeah, no problem," Peter conceded and started for his ladder. A sudden thought struck him and he stopped to stare at Neal, "Wait a minute. You've done plenty of things from heights. You jumped out of a freaking judge's window to land on an awning. And you expect me to believe that you can't handle a few feet up on a ladder?"

Neal looked up at him meekly, "Peter, I-"

"This is a con, isn't it?" Peter asked, "You're playing me so you don't have to work."

"That isn't what-"

"Forget it, Neal," Peter said as he grabbed the back of Neal's shirt and hauled him up beside him, "You aren't getting out of this. You promised and I'm not letting you con your way out of it."

"Peter, please, I swear to you this isn't a con," Neal said, "I stopped trying to con you a while ago. Just please, let me get down."

"No," Peter said, his frustration with the younger man building it's way to anger, "not happening. Now stop whining, and get to work."

Peter turned away from him and started unraveling the rest of the lights, draping them along the gutter. For a few tense moments, the only sound in the back yard was Peter's frustrated sighs as he reached irritating knots. The frustration mounted when Peter realized that Neal still hadn't moved.

He looked up, intent on giving the con a piece of his mind. Then he saw his partner and all frustration melted away. He watched as Neal tentatively reached out his right hand to grip the gutter and get to his knees. Once he had his knees beneath him, things seemed to grow difficult. In order for him to secure the lights to the roof, Neal would have to let go of the gutter completely. The mere thought seemed to paralyze Neal. His face drained of all color and a light sweat broke out on his face.

"Neal," Peter called gently, "you alright?"

Neal didn't answer, but Peter saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Peter knew Neal was an unbelievable con man, the best of the best. He had a natural gift of deceiving people with a gentleness and charm that couldn't be resented. But if Neal was acting now, then he wasn't human. No one was that good.

"Okay, alright, I believe you. We can get down now," Peter said.

Neal opened his mouth and licked his lips. He whispered, "I don't think I can."

_Crap_, Peter thought, _look what you did now, Burke._

"Alright, I'm coming over there," Peter said and promptly dropped his lights, nearly tripping over them. He crossed the roof in a few shuffling steps and knelt beside Neal.

"Alright, Neal, I'm going to hold you steady so you can climb down to the ladder, okay?"

Neal stiffened, "I can't, Peter. I'm sorry, I just-"

"Neal, you can't stay up here forever."

"Sure I can," Neal said with a ruthless laugh, "I've done it before."

Peter furrowed his brow, "What?"

Neal didn't answer him, but instead took a deep breath, "Okay, I'm going."

Peter gripped Neal's arm tightly and watched as Neal very slowly lowered his right foot down to the top rung. That one step seemed to sap all of Neal's energy as he leaned his head against the roof and started to shake.

"Neal, come on, just a few more steps and you'll be down. You can do it."

Slowly, Neal moved his left foot down to the next rung. Peter gripped the ladder tightly, formulating a plan of action to get Neal to talk this out once he was on the ground. There was a story behind this situation, he could feel it. The question was how to get Neal to share. Then Neal's foot slipped.

Peter felt the ladder rattle, heard Neal yelp though it sounded painfully like a whimper, and watched helplessly from his bird's eye view. Neal gripped Peter's hands hard enough to break bone and replaced his foot on the rung. He didn't move.

"It's okay, Neal. Just keep going."

Neal, with his upper body still on the roof, only shook his head. Peter frowned, feeling completely helpless. Elizabeth would be better at this than him but she was out shopping and it would be hours before she came home. Neal couldn't be up there that long in only a long sleeved shirt. He'd freeze in the cool autumn air.

"What did you mean earlier?" Peter asked, "When you said you'd done it before?"

"Do you really think now is the time?"

"I can't think of anything else to do. You're the one that won't go down."

"It's exactly what I said. I stayed on the roof."

"For how long?"

"A while."

Peter looked at Neal, wishing he could read his thoughts. He thought about the irrational fear Neal had of heights but only when it came to roofs it seemed. Then, suddenly, what he'd said about his step father came back to Peter's mind and he understood.

"What did he do to you, Neal?"

The younger man's shoulders hunched and he sighed heavily, "He didn't do anything. He didn't have to."

"Were you scared of heights as a kid?"

"Yeah, but Jake wasn't a man that believed in fear. For anyone."

"What happened?"

"I threw a Frisbee on the roof and he wanted me to get it myself to show me how much work it was to get it down," Neal cleared his throat, "I was fine until I got the Frisbee and looked down off the roof. I got really dizzy and scared. I couldn't move. I, um, started freaking out and…stuff."

_Crying_, Peter thought.

"How old were you?"

"Nine."

_Jesus_, Peter cringed, _Who in their right mind sends a nine year old onto the roof?_

"Jake didn't like that either, so he decided to teach me a lesson," Neal said and chuckled ruefully, "I could come down when I stopped crying and acted my age. He took the ladder and went inside."

"Jesus Ch- how long were you up there?"

"Twelve hours," Neal muttered, "My mother found me when she got off her second shift. I wasn't crying anymore, but I wasn't exactly there either."

"You blanked out."

"Yeah, but after that, heights weren't a problem. Except when I…"

"When you had to get on a roof," Peter concluded, "Jesus, Neal you should have said something."

"Yeah, like what? Hey, Peter, love to help out but I can't because of a repressed childhood trauma that is so ridiculous you'll laugh?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, "You hear me laughing?"

Neal glanced up at him, "No, can't say that I do."

"Didn't think so," Peter muttered, "but as enlightening as this is, we still have to get you down."

"I'd greatly appreciate that."

"Alright, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to count to three and your going to move your foot down. Don't think about it, just do it. Okay?"

"Peter, are you sure this-"

"Neal, do you trust me?"

Neal's only response was to sigh and hang his head. Peter took that as a yes and smiled.

"One…two…three…"

Neal stepped down, swallowing hard. Peter grinned.

"Good, now the right…"

Neal stepped again and now his arms were the only thing on the roof, still clasped tightly in Peter's hands. But the difficult part had come up now. In order for Neal to go down, Peter had to let go.

"Peter-"

"Neal, you've got this. All you have to do is let go of my hand and grab the ladder. That's it."

Slowly, Neal nodded, and tentatively released his hold on one of Peter's arms, snaking it down to grasp the cold metal of the ladder. Peter sighed and pulled his arm back, waiting patiently for Neal to gather his courage to move the other hand.

Finally, he let go.

"You can do this, Neal. Just breathe. One step at a time."

Neal chuckled, "You are never going to let me live this down."

"I might. If you ever get down."

"Alright, here it goes."

Neal stepped down, and Peter felt the lights beside him move. He watched as the line of lights, which had somehow gotten wrapped around Neal's ankle and remained unnoticed by both of them, caught on the gutter and tightened around Neal's leg. He had a moment of clarity, of the undeniable chain of events that was about to follow, and then Neal slipped.

Peter grabbed the lights as Neal tumbled backward, his heart suddenly in his throat. He heaved back with all of his weight, falling flat on his ass as the lights tried to slice through his gloved hands. And then the lights jerked to a stop.

"Neal?"

_Dear God, he's probably broken his neck._

Not willing to let the lights go just yet, Peter pulled them back as he leaned forward, hesitantly peering over the edge, afraid of what he'd find.

Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as he thought.

Neal hung inches off the ground, shirt rumbled around his chest, his hands flat on the lawn in a sort of awkward handstand. He looked up at Peter from under his arm, a relieved and amused smirk on his face.

"Nice catch," he said.

Peter grinned, "You can't do anything the normal way, can you?"

If Neal wasn't upside down, he probably would have shrugged.

Peter lowered him to the ground and then quickly scaled the ladder to the lawn. As he reached Neal's side, his friend was trying to stand but he was virtually exhausted. His knees wobbled as vertigo hit him and once more, Peter was right there to steady him as he fell back to his knees, Peter's hand between his shoulder blades.

"Easy, easy," Peter said encouragingly, "Take your time."

Neal inhaled deeply through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He looked at Peter and smiled, allowing color to return to his cheeks. There was a depth of gratitude lighting his eyes that Peter was practically compelled to squeeze his friend's shoulder.

"Next time," Peter said softly, "tell me you're scared."

"Next time," Neal said, smirking, "listen."

Peter nodded, accepting the truce, "Let's get inside and relax."

"Don't we have to put up the Christmas lights?"

"It can wait," Peter said, "The thing about fear is no matter the amount, it's always exhausting."

Neal raised an eyebrow at him, "What were you scared about?"

"Nothing, but talking the fear out of someone is exhausting too." Peter smirked, "and there's a game on I want to see."

Neal rolled his eyes, "Now who's conning who?"

Peter swiped at Neal's head and missed as he ducked and headed for the house chuckling.

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**A/N: The next installment will be uploaded in a couple of days. There isn't a terrible amount of H/C in the first few chapters, but I promise you the last chapter will be a doosie. And if you've read any of my other stuff, you know I will deliver.**

**Kudos.**


	2. The Malcontented Agent

**A/N: Here's the second installment. I'm getting close to finishing the fifth installment. So my goal is to upload a chapter a day. Enjoy!**

**Standard disclaimer applies.**

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**2-Drama**

There were times that Peter appreciated having Neal as a partner.

The closure rate of their cases had nearly doubled in the two years that Neal had been on the team. And the number of contacts Neal brought into the business certainly helped their cause. Neal's uncanny ability to go undercover was also an added bonus to the deal Peter had been certain at one point would end his career.

But like all things, to balance the good…

"Caffrey, what in the hell do you think you're doing!"

…there was always the bad.

"I swear, Agent Weeks, it wasn't me."

Peter sighed heavily and tapped the edge of the table with his pen. Try as he might, the words on the report continued to make little sense. If he wanted to keep his weekend free of work like he had promised Elle, then he had to get the stack of reports done. However, events outside his office were slightly distracting.

"Someone lifted my wallet, Caffrey, and I highly doubt it was anyone in this office," Weeks was saying, a slight tremor of anger laced under his words.

"Perhaps you misplaced it."

Peter rolled his eyes and dropped his pen on the stack of papers. He grabbed his mug and slowly pushed his chair back. The second wheel on the left squeaked painfully. _Gonna have to get that fixed_, Peter thought absently as he walked to his door and leaned against the frame.

The office was quieting down at the end of the week. Only a few agents were filtering papers across their desks. Diana was talking with Jones at the doors. She had her coat over her arm and her purse on her shoulder and her smile was wide as she discussed her weekend plans with Jones. He shifted the load of files in his arms, laughing at something she said.

"Misplaced it?!"

Peter looked at the end of the stairs and found his point of distraction. Neal was standing on the sixth step, hands shoved in his pockets flippantly. To the other agents in the office, to Weeks who stood two steps above the con, Neal took the entire situation as casual and boring. But Peter could see the truth, the slight tension around Neal's mouth, the nearly invisible crease in his forehead, especially the fact that his hands were hidden were all dead give a ways as to how serious Neal was taking this.

"Look, Agent Weeks, I'm sorry I don't know where your wallet is. I can help you look for it if you want."

Peter watched Weeks's face subtly change. His jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed. Neal's careless smile slipped slightly and his eyes slid ever so hesitantly towards Peter's door. Peter raised his mug and gave a small nod. Neal's body relaxed instantly at Peter's silent assurance. He looked back at Weeks.

"I'll take that as a no," he said and stepped past the agent, "Nice talking with you, Agent Weeks."

He made it three steps. Peter made it two, setting the mug down quickly on the side table by the door. By that time, Weeks had spun on his heel, contorted his face in a scowl, and nearly vaulted up the three steps. Peter caught a glimpse of Neal's startled face before Weeks flipped him back and slammed his back into the railing. Weeks had his fists balled tightly in Neal's collar, his face too close to Neal's.

"We aren't done, Caffrey," Weeks snarled, lifting Neal and slamming his back into the railing once more, "I want my wallet."

"I told you," Neal said, voice strained as he tried to pry the fingers off his shirt, "I don't have it. Let go."

"I don't believe you!"

"Weeks," Peter shouted from the top of the stairs, "Let him go, now."

"This doesn't concern you, Burke," Weeks said.

Peter wanted to say that it didn't concern Neal either or the missing wallet. He knew the stress Weeks was under-the son that was arrested for drunk driving, the wife threatening divorce, and the shot he had to take on his last case, wounding a kid not much older than his son. The anger he was taking out on Neal was misdirected at best and Weeks could hardly be blamed.

_And he won't be_, Peter thought inching his way down the stairs, _as long as nothing happened to Neal_.

Because if something did, all bets were off.

"Damn it, Weeks, let him go."

It probably wasn't the best move he ever made. Looking back, he should have handled the situation with a gentle tone and cautious step. But hindsight was twenty-twenty and at the time all Peter could think about was how much of an inconvenience Weeks's tantrum was. So he stepped forward, aggressive and determined. And Weeks turned, angry and unaware of the danger he posed to Neal and the audience he had drawn. As all eyes from the office watched, Weeks moved and Neal toppled backward.

A startled yelp was all that Peter heard as Neal disappeared over the edge. Then there was a loud thump and silence.

For his part, Weeks snapped out of his stress-filled stupor and realized what he'd done. He stared at the spot Neal had been and stepped backward, completely stunned that such a trivial matter had turned so serious. Peter looked angrily at the agent, but pushed it down, a short burst of adrenaline filling his veins. He raced down the steps, caught the end of the railing and turned the corner, only to find a most bemusing sight.

"Neal, for someone who looks like a twig, you sure weigh a lot," Jones said arching an eyebrow. He shoved Neal's shoulder as he tried to wiggle out from under his friend.

"It's all muscle," Neal said dazedly. He rolled off Jones to his hands and knees, then sat back against the wall of the stairs. He grinned genuinely at Jones, "Thanks for breaking my fall."

"I'd say any time," Jones said as he got to his feet, hand on his lower back, "but you may not take me up on that offer when you get my chiropractor bill."

Diana laughed, sliding her arm through his, "Come on, old man. Let's get you an ice pack."

Peter nodded at Jones as he passed, a subtle understanding passing silently between them, then offered his hand to Neal.

"You okay?" he asked.

Neal accepted his hand and hauled himself to his feet, "Fine. Just a tumble down the stairs."

Peter looked up at the railing, "Weirdest way down the stairs I've ever seen."

Neal just smirked at him.

"Caffrey, I…" Weeks stopped mid sentence as he approached the duo. If it was because he ran out of words or because of the angry look on Peter's face as he stepped in front of Neal, Peter wasn't sure. He liked to think he was just that intimidating.

"No worries, Agent Weeks," Neal said, stepping beside Peter and offering his hand, "Truce?"

An embarrassed blush colored the agent's cheeks as he accepted the offer. Peter didn't miss the respect and admiration that glinted in his eyes. Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to Neal to take a potential fight and turn it into a respected understanding.

"Neal, I'll meet you in the office," Peter said. He didn't miss the way Neal rolled his eyes before he left. He'd have to talk to him about insubordination later.

"Agent Burke," Weeks said quietly, "I don't know what came over me."

"Take a week off," Peter said, "and when you come back I'm ordering you to see a therapist."

Weeks's eyes widened, "What? Sir, I don't-"

"It isn't a request, Weeks. I don't care if you talk about the weather or sports, but you will talk to a professional about something. This," he gestured to the stairs, "can _not_ happen again."

Weeks glanced at the stairs, then nodded humbly.

Peter sighed and headed back to his office. He found his mug where he left it, a dark brown stain on the table where the coffee had spilled. He cursed his bad luck. Not only had the tantrum set him back in his paper work, but now his coffee was cold and his table was stained. Fantastic.

"Peter, do all of these need proofing?"

Peter looked up to find Neal seated in front of his desk with a pen and a folder. His feet were propped up on the desk and his jacket was slung over the chair, indicators of a long haul. Peter smirked.

Well, to balance the bad…

"Yeah, you taking half?'

Neal smirked, "Can't let you disappoint Elizabeth, now can I?"

…there had to be the good.

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**A/N: Short and sweet. Look for the third installment tomorrow. Till then, have a great day!**


	3. The Dancing Russian

**A/N: As promised, here is the third installment. It's slightly shorter than the other two, but still necessary. Also, thanks to those of you who pointed out the Suarez/Weeks error from the previous chapter. I think I've fixed the problem. Enjoy!**

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**3-Humor**

Peter pressed the back of his hand over his face and swallowed the explosive sneeze threatening to blow his hide out. Outside the small closet's door, he heard the Russian moving around, clanging dishes and opening cupboards. And he wondered where Neal had disappeared to. When Peter had ducked into the closet at Neal's urgent warning, the con had been in the bedroom, in open view. But given there was no angry yelling, Peter assumed that the Russian hadn't discovered his partner yet.

"Peter, you there?"

Peter pressed his fingers to the com in his ear and sighed at Neal's whisper. He raised the tiny microphone to his mouth.

"Neal, where the hell did you go?"

"I hid. I didn't feel like getting beaten, thank you very much."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but where did you hide?"

"Don't worry, Peter. Unless he decides to do some spring cleaning, he isn't going to find me."

Cryptic as ever the cheeky little bastard.

"Quick question, Peter. Why didn't your men worn us?"

Peter wondered that too. He'd already tried contacting them but only received static.

"I think it's a technical problem."

Neal snorted, "I didn't think the FBI had those."

"Watch it, Caffrey."

"Oh my God."

"What? What's going on?"

He heard a strangled noise, almost like…no, it couldn't be…Neal was _laughing_?

"Are you laughing?"

A smothered chuckle was his only response.

"Neal, what the hell are you laughing at?"

Neal fought to get his laughing under control, "You ever…ever see the movie Stardust?"

Peter thought back to all the chick flick's that Elle had made him watch. He seemed to remember some fantastical adventure about witches and love and fallen stars. For a brief moment, he wondered how Neal had seen it. At least he had a viable excuse.

"With Elle, I think. Why?"

There was another snicker, "You remember the part De Niro played?"

Peter did as it was the one part that cracked him up.

"What about it?"

"Our Russian is imitating him."

Peter frowned, "You can see him?"

"He's in the living room in a…oh, god…in a pink petticoat and white boa. He's dancing to…god, you can't hear that?"

Peter strained his ears, daring to lean against the door. He frowned and then grinned as he heard the music coming from the other room.

"Is that Irish music?"

"I wish you could see this, Peter. I'm recording it on my cell, but it just won't be the same as a front row seat."

"Are you sure this isn't all in your imagination?"

"Oh, definitely. Oh, no. You've got to be kidding me."

"What now?"

The only sounds Peter heard were the faint notes of the Irish music and Neal's chortled laughter. A part of him wanted to scold the con and remind him that they couldn't be caught. The other part desperately wanted to crack the door and watch the spectacle. Somehow he didn't think his imagination would do the situation justice. The Russian was over six foot four and had shoulders broad enough that he had to turn to get through the doorway. He was bald and intimidating, sporting earrings and tattoos like a Christmas tree lined in ornaments. The thought of him in a petticoat was too much to bear.

"He's done dancing," Neal reported, snickering, "Crap. Hold on."

Peter tensed at the sudden change in Neal's voice. The humor was gone and was replaced with anxiety. It was hard for Peter not to burst through the door of the closet just to see what was happening. Peter hated being blind.

"Neal, what's happening?"

No response.

"Damn it, Neal. Answer me. What's going on?"

No answer.

Peter was reaching for his gun and the door knob when he heard the Russian moving through the room. A few moments later he heard the door open and close. Then silence.

"Neal? Is he gone?"

"Yeah, Peter. Sorry, he came to change clothes. Couldn't exactly talk."

Peter sighed, "Fine, I'll meet you in the hall."

"That might be an issue."

Peter rolled his eyes, "What did you do now?"

"I'm stuck."

"Where?"

"In the bedroom."

Peter sighed and eased his way out of the closet. He walked through the living room, directly into the bedroom. But Neal was no where in sight.

"Alright, Houdini. Where'd you go?"

"Actually, Houdini was a master of escape, not disappearance."

Peter looked up. Peeking over the edge of the canopy that covered the giant king sized bed, was his CI, grinning as usual.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Oh, you know, just hanging around."

Peter sighed again, "Should I even ask?"

"My arm's caught. Mind helping me out?"

Peter climbed onto the mattress, but even standing on his tip toes he couldn't see over the canopy.

"How did you even get up here?"

"I was an acrobat in a past life."

"Yeah, you were a fly in a past life too."

"How do you figure that?"

"Flies are pests."

Neal glared, "I fail to see the similarities."

Peter hefted himself up and saw that Neal had somehow gotten his arm wrapped in one of the decorative canopy chords. Seeing the knot was pulled tight and he didn't have the time or the height to undo it, Peter pulled out his pocket knife.

"Oh, come on."

"Do you see any other options?"

"No. Just be careful not to cut the-"

_Rip._

"-canopy."

Peter had just a second to smile sheepishly before the small tear in the silk gave way under Neal's weight. Peter watched as he disappeared only to bounce off the bed and land on the floor with a thud. Peter jumped off the mattress nimbly.

"Nice landing, Mr. Acrobat."

Neal picked himself up off the floor, "Just for that, I'm not letting you see the dancing Russian."

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**A/N: Look for the fourth chapter tomorrow! I should have the fifth chapter done by Sunday if all goes according to plan.**

**Kudos!**


	4. The Hyperactive Canine

**A/N: And the fourth chapter has been posted. Give me three cheers for staying on schedule! It's another short and sweet chapter, so enjoy!**

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**4. Family**

Neal inhaled, and promptly coughed up a dust bunny. A moment later, he sneezed hard enough to rock the step stool he was standing on.

"You alright over there?"

"I'm beginning to regret coming over here, Peter."

Peter harrumphed, "You should have thought about that before you offered up your painting skills."

"Enough, boys. We're almost done."

"You said that two hours ago, Elizabeth."

Neal twisted the light bulb into the socket, grateful at least that Elle was more worried about his shoulder than her discomfort. The literal run in with the suspect he'd had at the beginning of the week had left his shoulder bruised and throbbing, which was the only reason he was not helping Peter move the heavy chest around the room. Instead, he was stuck cleaning dust-bunny covered light sockets and changing light bulbs.

"Neal, heads up. We're coming by you."

"Duly noted."

He hadn't planned on spending his weekend off helping the Burkes redecorate their guest room, but when Elle mentioned it, he offered his services. After all, he spent enough time in the room, the least he could do was put some sweat into it. So he'd helped move the lighter furniture out, and painted the walls the light, sea colored blue that Elle had picked out. Now, as the couple moved the furniture back into the room, he did menial tasks, not wanting to feel completely useless.

"Watch it, honey. You're dragging."

"Peter, I am not. Would you hurry up a bit? I feel like we've been at this for thirty minutes."

"We have," Peter deadpanned.

In retrospect, Neal supposed they should have been paying more attention. It was an accumulation of things, trivial and seemingly unimportant, but when combined, they led to disaster.

Neal was standing on the step stool, which was wobbly at best. Peter and Elizabeth were right behind him, each carrying one end of the heavy chest. And then there was Satchmo, who had been ignored all day long and just wanted some company. Tired of his isolation, he came running at full speed up the stairs, down the hall, and into the room, jumping up onto Elizabeth's shoulders. It was all down hill from there.

"Satchmo, no!"

But Peter's call was too late, and Elle dropped her end of the chest to fend off the dog. Which made Peter stumble under the heavy load, knocking off several picture frames and ramming right into Neal, who promptly fell off the stool and onto the floor.

But the chaos wasn't done.

Satchmo, seemingly determined to get someone's attention, pushed off of Elizabeth causing her to topple backward onto the floor and land with her hand in the tray of paint. Satchmo ran for Peter who still hadn't regained his balance and tackled the man to the ground, knocking over the decorative pillar holding a very expensive vase.

"No, the vase!"

Elizabeth reached out her blue tinted hand, as if she could stop the vase from crashing to the ground. At the last second, Neal reached out and rescued it from its untimely demise. All three let out a collective sigh and then glared at the dog.

"Satchmo!"

Satchmo only barked. Evidently causing enough damage for one day, he trotted out of the room, wagging his tail.

"That dog," Peter grumbled as he picked himself up and took the vase from Neal, "Everyone alright?"

Elizabeth grimaced at her paint covered hand, "It's a good thing we didn't take up the tarp over here yet."

"Neal, you okay?"

Neal turned and gingerly raised himself up on his elbow, "I think I broke something."

Blue hand and expensive vase forgotten, Peter and Elizabeth were by his side in a second.

"What hurts?" Elizabeth demanded.

"Should I call an ambulance or do you want me to drive you to the hospital?"

Neal raised his eyebrows at them, "What?"

"Neal, what did you break?" Elizabeth demanded.

"Your picture frame," he said, and understanding dawned on him, "Oh, you thought…sorry, guys. I'm fine."

Peter sighed, but Elizabeth wasn't satisfied until she had Neal standing and proving that all of his bones were indeed in tack and working. Peter picked up the broken frame and scratched photo.

"Ah, man. This was one of my favorites."

Elizabeth smiled, "Don't worry honey. I'm sure we have a copy of that picture somewhere. We took dozens the day we brought Satchmo home."

Peter grunted, "After all of the chaos he just caused, I can't say I'm dying to put the picture back up."

"I landed on it, Peter. I'll replace it."

"Nonsense, Neal. We'll take it out of Satchmo's allowance," El said.

Neal nodded and moved to grab the step stool. His face paled the minute he moved.

"Ow."

"Neal?"

"Peter, I think I did something to my shoulder."

It amazed him how such a simple statement could send two people into crazy mode. Peter, once again, was jumping to call the ambulance. Personally, Neal thought he just wanted to ride in the back of one. Elle had him down stairs on the couch, feet propped up, and an ice pack on his shoulder in seconds. After they'd stuffed him with Tylenol and he assured them he was fine, they stomped back up the stairs, refusing to let him help. Neal smiled as Satchmo curled up next to him.

"Hey, boy," Neal said as he scratched the dog's ears. Muffled banter could be heard from up the stairs. Neal grinned, "Sounds like Mom and Dad are having trouble. Think we should help them?"

Satchmo groaned and rolled onto his back, demanding a belly rub.

"Yeah, I think we've done enough for one day."

* * *

**A/N: I'm very close to finishing up the fifth and last chapter. Hopefully I will finish it up tonight so look for it tomorrow. Thanks for reading!**


	5. The Imminent Fall

**A/N: I have met my goal! I have only just finished this a few minutes before 10:30, and I must say that I am very pleased with myself. I hope you'll all agree! And, as promised, this one is longer than the other four combined and deals with a tremendous amount of H/C for our favorite con.**

**And now, dear readers, go on to read the last time Neal falls and how the four before this are all tied together.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**5. All of the Above**

This is how it was supposed to go:

On Friday, Neal would meet with Kronos, the Russian they'd been investigating for the past three weeks (and who the entire office had seen dancing in a leotard thanks to Neal's smart phone). Neal would be wearing a wire, they'd get what they needed to convict him, and then Peter would be home in time to cook dinner with his wife.

That was the plan. And you do not deviate from the plan.

But Kronos, apparently, didn't get the memo.

On Thursday, he phoned Nathan Palacio, one of Neal's many aliases, and set up an appointment. The buyer for the stolen goods Nathan was fencing through Kronos wanted to move up his schedule, and he really couldn't wait. He had an hour to get to the docks, or Kronos was walking away.

Frustrated, Peter had called his team together the minute he'd hung up with Neal. He didn't like this. It was all too rushed, too sudden, and it stank like day old fish. But his orders were to get Kronos at all costs, so he had the team scramble to the docks where he met them in the Taurus...with Satchmo in the back seat.

He'd taken the afternoon off to take Satchmo to the vet for his shots and a check-up. He was supposed to have time, but when the call came through, he barely had enough time to make it across town. So Satchmo had to come with.

Which is how he'd ended up with his dog panting beside him in the van along with Jones, Diana, and Weeks.

"The rest of the back up is on the way," Diana told him, "They'll stay a couple blocks out so Kronos doesn't get suspicious."

"I don't like this," Peter said for the hundredth time, "It's too soon."

"Boss, I've got Neal's audio up-"

"Achoo!"

Peter glanced at Weeks as he sniffled and wiped his nose. Weeks nodded to Satchmo.

"Allergies."

This day was going downhill fast. Peter grabbed the headphones and jammed them on his head, irritated and annoyed and really wishing he could rewind this day to before it even began.

_"-calm down. We can still make the deal."_

A small knot of tension released in Peter's back as he heard Neal's voice, steady and calm, come over the feed. Everything was alright as long as Neal kept talking.

_"I'm telling you, Palacio, the feds have made us. The deal is bust."_

_"You promised me a buyer, and I'm not walking away with hot merchandise. We have to go through with it."_

Neal suddenly gasped. Peter strained to hear, holding his breath. He heard the sound of a body hitting a wall and Neal's suddenly heavy breathing. This was not good.

_"Why are you in such a hurry, Palacio? You've been pushing this deal like it's life or death."_

_"A deal is a deal, Kronos. You said-"_

_"I said I'd get your goods sold, but now I'm thinking there are no goods. I'm starting to think that this has all been a set up from the beginning."_

"Shit," Peter muttered, turning to Diana, "Get back up on the line. Tell them to move in. Neal's been made."

_"-be paranoid, Kronos. Look, if it's that big of a deal, we'll hold off-"_

The unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh filtered over the waves. Neal grunted in pain, but it quickly turned into a sharp outcry as the fist hit again.

"Shit!" Peter nearly yelled, "Diana, Jones, with me. Weeks, monitor the feeds. Tell back up what's going on."

Peter ran out the door before his agents had even acknowledged his orders. He could hear Satchmo barking as he ran for the building, muffled by the van. As they entered the first floor, Peter plastered himself against the wall.

"Jones, you and Diana sweep this floor. I'm heading up."

"Boss, I don't know if we should split up."

Peter shook his head at Jones, "We don't have time. Back up is five minutes out. Neal can't wait that long."

Jones nodded and led Diana to the back of the building. Peter, satisfied that they had each other's back, ran up the steps, barely remembering to check the layout before entering the rooms. How the hell had things deteriorated so quickly? They'd barely been here ten minutes and suddenly everything was falling apart.

_"Burke, they're on the move."_

Peter pressed his finger to his mic, "Thanks, Weeks. Any developments?"

_"Sounds like Kronos has tied Caffrey up. Caffrey isn't making much noise."_

Peter shouted a string of curses in his head, picking up his pace. As he charged up the stairs to the fifth landing, he nearly came face to face with Kronos. Peter had a second to take everything in, barely seeing Neal's face before Kronos was shouting and shoving the conman in front of him like a shield. Not that it did him a heck of a lot of good. The Russian was huge.

"FBI, freeze!"

Kronos shouted something in Russian that didn't sound too friendly and pulled out a gun from behind his back. Peter ducked as Kronos squeezed off three shots. He slid down the stairs, covering his head as the bullets richocheted around him like popcorn. Only when he heard the steps retreating did he dare to peek out from his cover. The stairwell was empty.

"Weeks, they're heading to the roof. Tell Jones to get up here and Diana to cover the fire escape."

_"Yes, sir."_

Gun at the ready, Peter cautiously climbed the stairs to the roof door. The adrenaline and panic screamed at him that he was going too slow. Neal was in trouble; he should be _doing_ something, but running head first into a dangerous situation was not going to help Neal.

Finally, he reached the roof and kicked open the door, gun aimed and his finger on the trigger. But the scene before him made him freeze the moment he stepped out of the stairwell.

Kronos stood at the back of the roof in plain sight, shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. In his left hand was his gun, held limply between lax fingers, aimed at the ground. In his right hand was a green chord that he'd tied around Neal. Peter frowned, trying to see what the Russian had substituted as rope.

Christmas lights.

Peter swore under his breath. Kronos had used Christmas lights to tie Neal up like a Christmas turkey and was now holding him hostage on the roof top. Kronos had forced Neal onto the roof's edge and pushed him back till only his toes were on the concrete. The only thing keeping Neal suspended in the air was that string of Christmas lights.

"Let him go, Kronos," Peter ordered.

Kronos chuckled, "Bad choice of words, Mr. FBI agent. I let him go, and you'll need a spatula to get him off the pavement."

Peter steadied his gun, "Put him back on the roof, Kronos, or I will shoot."

"You shoot me, and I let go. There's five stories of nothing between him and the ground. He lands just right, he breaks his neck. Lands any other way, and he breaks a lot of bones. You really want that on your conscience?"

Peter clenched his teeth, "This building will be surrounded in three minutes. You've got no where to go. So put an end to this now."

Kronos shook his head, "I've got me a hostage, agent, and in a moment, I'm going to have me another. Put your gun down."

"Peter, don't."

Peter cringed at Neal's slurred voice. He'd been trying desperately not to look at his friend, already noticing the blood pouring from Neal's mouth and the gash on his cheek. Something was broken in his face, there was no doubt about that. The amount of pain written on Neal's face almost physically pained Peter.

"Shut up, you back-stabbing bastard," Kronos ordered, giving the chord a jerk. He turned his coal-black eyes to Peter, "What's it gonna be, agent?"

Peter hesitated. Giving up his weapon when Kronos so obviously had one was a death wish. But if he didn't...

Kronos, tired of waiting, let the chord slip over his fingers several inches. Neal yelped as he teetered backwards and strained to keep his toes on the ledge. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Alright," Peter shouted, raising his arms up, "Alright, I'm putting it down. Just don't...do that."

Kronos grinned as he watched Peter carefully lay his gun down and kick it several feet away. He brought his own gun up, the barrel trailing Peter's movements as the agent stood upright.

"I did what you asked," Peter said cautiously, "Now, get him down."

A wide, wicked grin split Kronos' face, "Sure thing."

And he let go.

* * *

There was a moment when Neal felt like he was flying. Everything melted away. The chains of his mortal existence fell off and there was nothing but him and the air. There was no sound, only a flash of blue sky above him as he flew like a dove through the expanse between heaven and earth.

And then that moment came to an abrupt and shattering end.

* * *

Peter didn't know it could hurt so much to watch someone fall. But it did. It hurt like a knife being plunged into his heart, all the way to the hilt, sharp and piercing and deep.

One moment, Neal was there and the next, he was gone. Just like that. Like he'd never been there at all.

Peter surged forward, arm reached out as if that alone could keep Neal from falling into oblivion. He stopped just five feet short of the ledge as Kronos cocked his gun and aimed it at Peter's head.

"Stop right there, agent. I still need you."

Breathing heavily, anger rolling off of him in waves, Peter obeyed. He glared at Kronos, conveying all of his hate into one murderous glare.

Kronos smirked, "I suspect you want to kill me," he shook his head, "You won't."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"You're a law man, agent. You aren't going to kill a man in cold blood."

"You just threw my best friend off the roof," his voice as cold as ice, "I think I might make an exception."

Kronos steadied the gun, "Too bad you won't get the chance."

Maybe Kronos would have killed him then and there and made a run for it. Maybe he was just trying to intimidate Peter into being a more compliant hostage. Peter would never know because at that moment, Jones came charging onto the roof, gun drawn, shouting for Kronos to drop it.

Kronos reacted, turning his head and gun towards this new intruder. It was all Peter needed.

With one hand, he grabbed the gun and thrust it upwards, jamming his finger through the trigger hole. The other hand he plowed into the Russian's face.

But he may as well have punched granite because Kronos barely flinched and Peter was certain something in his hand cracked.

Growling deep in his throat, Kronos slammed his fist into Peter's gut, doubling him over in gasping pain. He grabbed Peter's throat and lifted the agent until his toes were barely scraping the ground. Staring Peter down with wide, dilated eyes, Kronos grinned evilly.

"Maybe I should send you over the edge, too," he growled, "I think your friend could use the company."

Gagging from the lack of oxygen, Peter couldn't answer him. Then suddenly Kronos jerked to the side and dropped Peter to the ground. The echo of a gunshot echoed around them. Kronos touched his chest and stared disbelievingly at the blood staining his finger tips. He turned to face Jones.

"You shot me," he wheezed incredulously.

"I'll do it again if you don't drop that weapon," Jones ordered, his voice and gun never wavering.

Kronos looked down at his chest and watched with detatched fascination as a river of red steadily soaked through his shirt. He staggered backwards until the back of his knees hit the concrete ledge, and raised his eyes to Jones.

A small, resigned smile appeared on his face.

Peter reached out, "Wait-"

But Kronos raised the gun and Jones shot him down. Two more bullets entered his chest cavity, forcing him backwards and toppling him over the edge.

Peter watched Kronos disappear with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he didn't want anyone to die, but on the other, he really wished he was the one to pull the trigger.

Jones appeared beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other holding the gun out in anticipation of another attack, "Peter, you okay?"

Peter coughed harshly, rubbing his throat, "Yeah, I'm fine."

Jones chuckled, relieved as he surveyed the roof. His forehead furrowed as he realized one important element was missing, "Where's Caffrey?"

Peter looked at Jones, not bothering to hide the grief suddenly flowing through him, and then he looked at the ledge.

Jones followed his gaze and closed his eyes, "Shit."

* * *

"Barrigan, are you in position?"

_"I'm nearing the back of the building. Jones just went up. Any word from Peter?"_

"Nothing. Back up is still three minutes out. I'll let you know if-"

Weeks' words were drowned out as Satchmo suddenly went crazy, clawing and barking at the back door of the van.

_"Weeks, what's going on?"_

"Burke's dog is going nuts," Weeks muttered, stifling a sneeze. He grabbed at Satchmo's collar, ordering him to heel, but the usually mild-tempered dog nipped at his hand, "Jesus, what the hell is wrong with him?"

_"Maybe he needs out."_

Weeks raised an eyebrow, not sure if Barrigan was kidding or not. He watched the dig at the bottom of the door. If he let the dog out, there was no telling what it would do. It could just run off, but there was also a chance that it would interfere with the arrests. And if Weeks lost the dog, he was certain Burke would kill him.

Satchmo whined loudly.

_This is a bad idea_, Weeks thought.

But he opened the door anyway.

Satchmo took off like a bullet, barreling out of the van so fast that Weeks nearly falls out of his chair. Grabbing his gun and slamming the door shut behind him, he quickly followed.

_"Weeks, what's going on?"_

"Nothing good," he panted, "Burke's dog is leading me on a wild goose chase. Something's gotten in to him."

_"Something is happening on the roof."_

Weeks swore under his breath. He so didn't need this right now.

He rounded the corner of the building, following the yellow blur Satchmo had become. The warehouse sat on the edge of the wharf. A concrete platform only five feet wide ran parallel to the building, separating it from the fifteen foot deep watery expanse beside it. Satchmo stood in the middle of the platform, barking madly at the roof.

Weeks looked up, "Son of a bitch."

He recognized Caffrey's lanky form teetering dangerously on the edge of the warehouse. Something thin and wire-like was wrapped repeatedly around his arms, binding his hands in front of him. He couldn't see who was holding Caffrey by a thread, but Weeks had no doubt it was Kronos, toying with Burke by threatening his partner.

"Barrigan, I see them. It's not good. I think-"

And then Caffrey fell.

"Shit!"

_"Weeks, what's happening?"_

But Weeks couldn't respond. He watched helplessly as Caffrey's body tumbled through the air and cracked against the edge of the concrete before slipping into the water. Paralyzed what he'd just witnessed, Weeks stood still as stone as Caffrey bobbed in the murkey bay and then began to sink.

Satchmo, however, was a little more responsive.

Weeks snapped out of his trance as the dog jumped into the water and bit the collar of Caffrey's jacket. He knelt down and reached for the immobile consultant as the dog tugged him closer. Caffrey was face down, still tied by the chords-_Jesus, were those Christmas lights?_-and Weeks swore he saw tendrils of red wisping out from around his body.

Finally, his fingers snagged water-logged fabric.

_"-you better answer me right now, Weeks! What the hell is going on?"_

"Barrigan, I need you on the south side of the warehouse. Now!"

_"I'm on my way. What's wrong?"_

"Caffrey's down," Weeks said quietly, hefting the other man out of the water, "Call an ambulance."

He laid Caffrey flat, swore at the blood running down his much-too-pale face and the odd angle of his left leg, and pulled at the Christmas lights. His fingers slipped uselessly over the chords. Swearing profusely, he dug in his pockets for the pocket knife his son gave him for Father's day ten years ago.

Barrigan slid to her knees on the other side of Caffrey's prone body, "Is he breathing?"

"He wasn't in the water long," Weeks told her, silently cheering as he pulled out the knife, "Burke's freaking dog saved him."

Barrigan turned to the water, "Oh, Satchmo."

The water-logged dog was whining as he circled the bay, unable to pull himself out. As Weeks quickly sliced through the Christmas lights, Barrigan reached in and grabbed Satchmo by the collar, heaving back to drag him out of the river. Once on dry land, Satchmo shook vigorously, spraying Barrigan and Weeks with rancid fish water.

"I've got a pulse," Barrigan said breathlessly, pressing her shaking fingers to Caffrey's neck.

The last of the chord's snapped, "There!"

"He's not breathing," Barrigan snapped. Without another moment of hesitation, she breathed for him.

"We can't do compression," Weeks said, "He hit the concrete. I have no idea what damage has been done to his chest."

Barrigan seemingly ignored him, breathing once again into Caffrey's mouth. A moment later, water bubbled up from the back of Caffrey's throat and spilled over his lips. Carefully, Weeks turned Caffrey's head to the side, wincing as he thought of neck and spinal injuries. But he couldnt' let the other man choke.

"Weeks!"

His head snapped up at Barrigan's cry just in time to watch the bullet ridden body of Kronos slam head first into the pavement. Neither of them bothered to get up to check the body.

Weeks turned back to Barrigan, "Get Burke down here."

She looked at Caffrey's still and bloody form. And he knew by the trembling of her lip that he didn't need to explain why. As she moved away and put her fingers to her mic, Weeks bent over Caffrey, placing his hands on his neck to keep it steady.

"Don't die on us now, Caffrey," he ordered softly.

* * *

"Peter, we've got to get down."

Peter nodded, but still couldn't force his legs to work. His eyes were transfixed on the spot where he last saw Neal. His friend's bruised and bloody face flashed through his mind, and he hated that the horrific image would be the last he had of his partner. Until he saw the body.

"Peter-"

"I'm not sure I can handle it," Peter admitted to Jones, "Seeing him like that-"

"I know," Jones said, nodding, "but we have to go down."

Jones offered him his hand, hauling Peter to his feet and turning him away from the ledge. Neither of them had looked down, unable to willingly see what was once their friend lying crumbled and broken on the unforgiving ground below.

_"Boss."_

Peter stopped, pressing his fingers to the receiver in his ear, "Diana, where are you?"

_"On the ground, Boss, south side by the water. You'd better get down here, Boss. Caffrey's still alive."_

"Shit."

Peter didn't hear Jones' curse. He was already running down the stairwell, tripping over his own two feet and bouncing off walls like he was rubber. He heard Jones' heavy breathing and hurried footsteps right behind him, but he only had one thing on his mind.

Getting to Neal.

Before it was too late.

He emerged from the building on the east side and ran as fast as he could around the corner. The sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.

On the right side of the pavement lay the corpse of Kronos, a bloody and broken mess that would stay would Peter for a long time. Satchmo, soaked to the bone, pranced around anxiously, barking and yipping. Beside the water, Diana and Weeks knelt on the concrete, looking practically destroyed, Diana actually close to tears. And laying deathly still between them was Neal.

"Jesus Christ," Peter muttered, rushing to take Diana's place by his friend.

"Ambulance is on the way," she said, voice choked with tears, "ETA five minutes."

"Back up is here," Jones announced, glancing over his shoulder, "I'll deal with the scene."

Peter wasn't listening. He was looking at Neal, taking in every scrape and bruise and broken limb. Weeks held Neal's neck with both hands and didn't seem willingly to let go anytime soon.

"He hit the pavement," the agent said, "I can't let go. There might be damage."

Peter nodded, carefully brushing Neal's wet curls away from his forehead, revealing an ugly and open head wound, "Neal? Can you hear me?"

Neal moaned and swallowed convulsively. His lips moved soundlessly, no words coming out.

"Easy, Neal," Peter encouraged softly, "Just breathe. We're gonna get you fixed up. You're gonna be fine."

"His leg is broken," Weeks said, "and there's internal damage. There was blood in the water he coughed up."

Peter hung his head briefly, sucking in a deep breath to fight off the gathering tears. Neal fell five stories and hit pavement. He wasn't just walking away from this one.

"Neal, buddy. I need you to wake up. Just for a minute. Give me something here, Caffrey."

Neal's eye lashes fluttered and slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. His normally observant and perceptive gaze was unfocused and clouded with pain. He choked, arching his back and neck as the pain came alive.

"Don't," Weeks said urgently, "Don't move. You've got to stay still."

"I'm here, Neal," Peter grabbed his hand, "I've got you. Just concentrate on my voice, alright?"

Neal flicked his eyes towards Peter's voice and slowly focused on his friend's face, his mouth trying to say Peter's name.

"Don't talk. Just stay awake, okay? The ambulance will be here any second. You're gonna be fine."

Neal groaned, nearly crying out as a fresh wave of pain stabbed through his chest. Tears leaked from his eyes as he clenched them shut. Peter watched with bated breath, nearly losing his fight with his own tears.

"Jesus, Neal. I'm so sorry. God, look at you."

"S'not that...bad," Neal slurred weakly.

Peter gave a strained smile, "Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but I think someone ruined your pretty."

"Chicks," Neal coughed and swallowed hard, "Chicks...dig scars."

"You're gonna be alright, Neal. We're going to get you to the hospital and you'll be flirting with the nurses in no time. Alright?"

Neal dragged in a harsh, broken breath, "Peter, I...can't..."

"You can, Neal," Peter said forcefully, "Listen to me, Neal. You can do this. You're strong. I know you can do this."

Too weak to respond, Neal locked eyes with Peter and tightened his grip on his hand. He coughed brutally, flecks of bright blood spattering his lips and tinting his teeth pink.

"I'm sorry, Neal," Peter whispered, "I'm sorry I let you fall. I'm sorry I didn't catch you."

Neal choked and smiled faintly, "We all...fall...do-"

Peter held his breath as Neal stilled and his hand went limp, "Neal?"

Weeks turned and yelled with all of his might, "Get the paramedics over here now!"

"Neal. Open your eyes, Neal. Don't do this, not now..."

"God damn it, hurry up!"

"Please, kid, don't you check out on me now..."

Weeks watched as the medics ran towards them, kits in hand and panicked looks on their faces, "Come on!"

"Please...don't, Neal."

Weeks held Neal's neck until the brace was put on and then his job became pulling Peter out of the way. The older agent wrenched his arms away and spun towards the building, wiping his hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide the fact that his chin was trembling. Weeks wisely stepped away, giving Peter his space. With his heart in his throat, Weeks watched as the paramedics shocked Neal's body again and again, Neal's final words haunting him like an eerie lullaby.

_We all fall down._

* * *

When Elizabeth got the call, she was with a client, a high priority, high paying client. They'd been scoping a venue, a beautiful ballroom that led to an open, gorgeous garden. It was as they'd been admiring the marble statues in the center of the garden that the call came. Elizabeth had meant to silence it, apologizing to her client profusely for the interruption, but then she'd seen Peter's number and knew instantly deep in her gut that something was wrong.

Her first thought had been Satchmo. He'd had a check up that afternoon, and she worried that they'd found something bad. Then she heard Peter's voice and she knew. She just knew. The degree of sadness that hollowed out his voice, the way he stumbled over the words, never making a full sentence, she just knew.

And in that garden, surrounded by white statues of simple maidens and bright blossoms of vibrant colors, Elizabeth fell to her knees, choked by her own tears, and listened to the silence of her husband telling her that their worst nightmares had come true.

* * *

Peter sat in the waiting chairs, clutching Elizabeth's hand to his chest, neither of them saying anything. What was there to say? They'd been waiting for four hours, waiting to hear from the doctors if Neal would live or succumb to his injuries. He'd died once on the docks and another time in the ambulance. Peter had watched each time as they brought him back, praying that it would be enough, that they weren't already too late. But Peter knew.

Neal was damaged, he was broken, he was dying.

"He just fell."

Elizabeth raised her head as Peter whispered the words. She'd stopped trying to wipe away the tear tracks an hour ago. All of her make-up had been rubbed off. Only remnants of the mascara remained, circling her eyes with black.

"Peter."

"He just fell away," Peter whispered, staring at the bleached tile, "Like he was never there. And I couldn't do anything to stop it."

"Oh, Peter," Elizabeth whispered, running her fingers through his short hair, "Sweetie, there was nothing you could have done."

"I should have caught him," Peter said, "I always catch him."

Elizabeth raised his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers tenderly and pressing his hand over her heart, "You can't catch him every time. Sometimes," she swallowed hard, "sometimes gravity wins."

Closing his eyes, Peter pressed his forehead against hers, "Gravity's a bitch."

She chuckled, but sobered quickly, "He's going to be okay, Peter."

Peter sighed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to have hope, but she hadn't seen the way Neal had bled. She hadn't seen the way he'd stopped moving, stopped breathing. He wanted to believe that he'd be alright, but he didn't know how.

"Agent Burke."

Peter looked up as Weeks stepped into the waiting room. The younger agent stood in front of them in rumbled clothes, tiny blood stains littering his shirt sleeve. His eyes were red-rimmed and blood shot, and he seemed unable to meet their eyes.

"Weeks, what is it?" Peter asked.

"Jones sent me to give you an update," Weeks said, "They've contained the scene and recovered the merchandise. Kronos had some files at the warehouse. They've given us a lead on the buyer so the case might still be salvageable."

"Thanks, Weeks," Peter said.

Weeks nodded towards the double doors, "Any word?"

"Nothing yet," Elizabeth said softly.

Weeks nodded and swallowed, "Um, I have Satchmo in the car. I was going to take him to your house, but I can't get in."

"Yeah, sure," Peter said, quickly standing and handing him the house keys, "Thank you," As Weeks reached for the keys Peter caught his hand, "I mean it, Tom. Thank you for everything."

"I only did what I could," Weeks said with a small smile, "It's Satchmo you should thank. He jumped in and pulled Caffrey to the edge. Even led me right to him. Without him, I wouldn't have been there in time."

"I'll be sure to give him an extra biscuit," Peter smirked, "and I'll let you know when we hear anything about Neal."

"Right," Weeks nodded and quietly took his leave, throwing one last worried glance over his shoulder.

"He's a good man," Elizabeth said.

Peter nodded, "I don't care what he says, he saved Neal's life," he hung his head, "for however long it lasts."

Elizabeth stood and wrapped her arms around her husband's waist, resting her head on his chest, "He'll make it."

"I think you should listen to your wife."

The couple spun around, coming face to face with a middle aged doctor holding a clip board. He smiled at them from under his full beard and held out his hand.

"I'm Doctor Benson," he said, "I'm Mr. Caffrey's trauma surgeon. If you'll have a seat, I'll fill you in on what's been happening."

Anxiously, Peter and Elizabeth obeyed.

"Right," Dr. Benson said, taking a seat beside them, "Mr. Caffrey came in with several broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, and heavy internal bleeding. We re-inflated the lung and removed the spleen. The hemorrhaging took a while to repair, but barring any unforeseen problems, he should be fine."

"Thank God," Elizabeth breathed, leaning heavily against her husband.

"His left fibula is broken. It will be in a cast for several weeks. At the moment, his head injury is the most concerning. There was some localized swelling on the right frontal lobe. It's gone down, but with the concussion it could be problematic."

"How so?" Peter asked, heart rate rising.

"We won't know anything until he wakes up," Dr. Benson said quickly, "but there could be brain damage. We lost him twice on the table. With the lack of oxygen coupled with the swelling and concussion, there is a chance."

"How big of a chance?" Peter asked, near breathless. It felt like he'd taken a pile driver to the stomach and all of the air had been knocked from his lungs.

"About 7 percent," Benson admitted reluctantly, "but we can't know for certain until he wakes up."

"Can we see him?"

Benson nodded, "I'll take you to his room. I want to warn you, though, it might be a bit of a shock. He's hooked up to a lot of machines. But they're necessary."

Peter nodded and held Elizabeth's hand tightly as they followed the doctor down the hall to the ICU room. Neal's bed was positioned in the middle and, as Benson had promised, it was surrounded by beeping machines. His leg was in a cast and raised off the bed and his head was wrapped tightly with a white bandage. Perhaps the most shocking element of the scene was the oxygen mask attached to his face because if meant that Neal couldn't breathe on his own.

"I'll leave you alone," Benson said, "Call the nurses if you need anything."

Peter and Elizabeth barely acknowledged his departure. Peter helped Elizabeth sit beside Neal, resting his hand on her shoulder as she took Neal's limp hand in both of hers and placing his other hand on Neal's shoulder. They were connected now, and they would stay that way until Neal woke up because Neal had to know.

He had to know that he wasn't alone.

* * *

This is how it was supposed to go:

In a few hours, Neal would wake up and pass the tests the doctors would run, proving that he didn't have brain damage. After a night in ICU, they would move him to general admission where he would stay for over a week with Peter and Elizabeth by his side every step of the way. Eventually, he would be released into the watchful and loving care of the Burkes, making use of the guest room they'd painted a week before the fall. And then when he was healed, things would go back to the way they were and they would live happily ever after.

Except that's not how it went.

Neal didn't wake up for two days. While Elizabeth and Peter stayed by his side, he slept on, causing his doctor to grow increasingly worried each day. The longer Neal stayed unconscious, he warned, the more likely brain damage would be.

When Neal finally did wake, it wasn't what Peter and Elizabeth had been hoping for. The machines wailed and alarms sounded. Neal opened his eyes and screamed in pain. They were ushered out of the room and made to wait for two hours before they were seen by Benson. An infection and pneumonia had set in and Neal's lungs were working over time to play catch up. They'd had to put him on a ventilator. He was still unconscious, and they had no idea if any brain damage had been done.

For three more days, they waited for the drugs to work. They waited for the infection to fade. They waited for Neal to wake up.

On the third day after they'd finally taken Neal off the ventilator, Peter sent Elizabeth home to rest and see to Satchmo. He was certain the dog had grown so restless that he'd eaten all of their furniture. Reluctantly, Elizabeth agreed, too tired to put up much of an argument.

Peter himself was exhausted. He'd barely slept the last five days, and what rest he did get wasn't very comfortable as the waiting room chairs may as well have been rocks. But even the bare, plastic chair he sat in by the bed was comfortable enough to doze in.

As he dozed, his third problem in getting sleep arose. The nightmares, or more accurately, memories, assaulted him the moment his eyes closed. He saw Neal standing on the edge of a roof, a roof so much higher than the warehouse, and he was standing only inches from his friend. Neal teetered and Peter tried to reach out, but his arms wouldn't work and he watched with wide eyes as Neal tumbled backwards into a pitch black abyss.

Peter jolted awake, nearly falling out of his plastic chair. God damn nightmares.

"If you'd fallen out of that chair, I'd probably die laughing."

Peter jerked up, "Neal?"

His face pale and eyes barely open, Neal watched Peter straighten in his chair, an impossibly wide smile on his face, "Hi."

"Hey yourself," Peter muttered, "You sure took your time waking up."

"How long?" Neal asked, his voice scratching painfully in his throat.

"Going on six days. You had us all really worried."

"I'm sorry."

"No, Neal," Peter shook his head forcefully, "No, you have nothing to be sorry for. You did everything you were supposed to. It just...Jesus, I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Neal asked, confused.

"I should have been there. I should have gotten there sooner or shot Kronos on the spot. None of this would have happened. Damn it, I should have caught you."

Neal furrowed his forehead, "What are you-"

A nurse, coming to check Neal's vitals, interrupted them, "Well, look who's awake. Just in time too. Dr. Benson will be making his rounds shortly," she turned to Peter, "I'm afraid you're going to have to wait outside while he examines your friend."

"Sure, I need to call my wife anyway," Peter clasped Neal on the shoulder, "Don't flirt to much with the nurses, alright?"

"Peter, don't-"

"I'll be right outside," Peter assured him, "I'm not going anywhere."

Neal swallowed the dryness in his throat and nodded, allowing the nurse to check his vitals. Peter stepped outside the door, walked down the hall to the waiting room, and promptly started crying. He blamed it on the exahaustion, on the building stress from the last six days and the worry that had been plaguing him since the moment he saw Neal fall. Maybe it was the combination of everything and the relief of seeing Neal awake.

Whatever the reason, Peter was crying like a little baby in a 5 by 6 waiting room while people passed by the open door.

It took him several minutes to compose himself. He wanted to call Elizabeth to let her know Neal had finally come back to the living, but decided to wait until he had something conclusive to tell her. He'd probably catch hell for not phoning her the second Neal opened his eyes, but he'd have to take that chance. If he called her now, he'd only end up sobbing again.

"Agent Burke?" A young nurse appeared in the doorway, "Dr. Benson is done examining Mr. Caffrey. You can come back to the room now."

Silently, he followed her to the ICU room, hastily wiping at his eyes. Benson met him at the door.

"He's going to be fine, Peter," he said, smiling, "There is no brain damage, the infection is gone, and the pneumonia is clearing up nicely. With time and rest, he'll make a full recovery."

"Thank you, Robby," Peter sighed heavily. It still unnerved him that he was on a first name basis with Neal's doctor. No one should be that familiar with a trauma surgeon.

"We'll keep him overnight, and move him to a regular room tomorrow," Benson slapped Peter's shoulder, "Now, go give him a hard time for making you and your lovely wife worry so much."

Peter thanked him again and stepped back into Neal's room. Half of the machines were removed and Neal was now propped upright. He smiled softly as Peter took his designated seat beside him.

"You're looking better," Peter said.

"Feeling it," Neal answered, "They've given me some pretty good drugs."

"I'm glad. The doctor gave a good prognosis. If you don't give us any other surprises, you should be out of the hospital some time next week."

Neal groaned, "Yeah, that sounds promising."

"Don't push yourself, Neal," Peter admonished, "You've been through hell."

"So I've heard," Neal licked his lips and watched Peter carefully, "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember falling," Neal said, "but I meant after that. What happened to your hand?"

Peter glanced at the black brace covering his right wrist and hand. He'd completely forgotten about the cracked knuckle and sprained wrist he'd gotten when he'd punched Kronos in the face.

"It's nothing," Peter said, waving away Neal's concern, "I tried punching a wall and it didn't give."

"This wall...it wouldn't have been Russian, would it?"

Peter chuckled, "Yeah, maybe. But we don't have to worry about the Russian wall any more. He's dead."

Neal nodded, "I'm not sure if I should feel relieved or not."

"He threw you off a roof, Neal," Peter said bitterly, "I think you're allowed to feel some relief."

"Yeah, I guess," Neal paused, swallowing hard, "Peter, about what you said before, about how you should have caught me. You know that's not right, don't you?"

Peter turned away, rubbing his temple, "I should call Elizabeth. She'll kill me when she finds out how long you've been awake."

"Don't change the subject, Peter," Neal ordered, "I want to talk about this."

Peter sighed, turning back to Neal, "Alright. Go ahead."

"Don't sound so thrilled."

"Neal, you don't understand," Peter shook his head, "I always catch you, but I let you down this time. I let you fall."

"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

Peter raised an eyebrow, "Did you just quote Vince Lombardi?"

Neal laughed, "Figures you would go for the football player. I was thinking more along the lines of Ralph Waldo Emerson."

"So who ripped off who?"

"It doesn't matter who said it, Peter. What matters is what it means."

"Yeah, well what does it mean?"

"It means that we all fall sometimes," Neal told him emphatically, "It means that no matter what we or anyone does, we can't always stay on our feet. Sometimes we fall down, but that doesn't matter. What matters is getting back up again."

Peter looked away, "Neal-"

"You always catch me, Peter, but even you can't catch me every time I fall. But it doesn't matter because I know that no matter how far or how hard I fall, you will always be there to help me get back up again," Neal smiled, "and that's what really matters."

Peter hung his head between his hands, laughing ruefully, "How is it that I can hold onto this guilt for six days and you can wipe it away with a few poetic words in only a few minutes?"

"Because I'm just that good."

"Yeah. Maybe you are."

Peter stood and squeezed Neal's shoulder carefully, "I'm going to call Elizabeth. So prepare yourself to be smothered."

"Oh, I'll be looking forward to it," Neal clasped Peter's hand with his own, wary of the I.V., "Thank you, Peter, for picking me back up again."

"Any time," Peter said, "but for the record, I'd rather catch you."

Neal laughed, "Me, too."

* * *

This is how it goes:

As in all lives, Neal will fall. Whether it be literally or emotionally, big or small, he will eventually fall.

But when he does, Peter will be there to catch him.

And if he can't do that, well, then he'll be there to pick him back up again.

* * *

**A/N: And that, dear readers, is the startling conclusion to my five-day fic-a-thon. I do hope you've enjoyed reading. And as I seem to be on a roll with writing, look for my next fic _Flatline_ to be coming within the next couple of days. If you haven't already guessed, it will be...drum roll, please,...another hurt/comfort fic. Read ya later!**


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